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* know not love," quoth he, "nor will I know it, Unless it be a boar, and then I chase it : Tis much to borrow, and I will not owe it;

My love to love is love but to disgrace it; For I have heard it is a life in death, That laughs, and weeps, and all but with a breath.

"Who wears a garment shapeless and unfinish'd? Who plucks the bud before one leaf put forth? If springing things be any jot diminish'd,

They wither in their prime, prove nothing worth: The colt that's back'd and burthen'd being young, Loseth his pride, and never waxeth strong.

"You hurt my hand with wringing; let us part,

And leave this idle theme, this bootless chat: Remove your siege from my unyielding heart;

To love's alarm it will not ope the gate. Dismiss your vows, your feigned tears, your flattery; For where a heart is hard, they make no battery."

"What! canst thou talk," quoth she," hast thou a tongue ?

O would thou hadst not, or I had no hearing! Thy mermaid's voice hath done me double wrong; I had my load before, now press'd with bearing: Melodious discord, heavenly tune harsh-sounding, Earth's deep-sweet music, and heart's deep-sore wounding.

"Had I no eyes, but ears, my ears would love That inward beauty and invisible;

Or, were I deaf, thy outward parts would move Each part in me that were but sensible : Though neither eyes nor ears, to hear nor see, Yet should I be in love, by touching thee.

"Say, that the sense of feeling were bereft me,

And that I could not see, nor hear, nor touch, And nothing but the very smell were left me,

Yet would my love to thee be still as much; For from the still'tory of thy face excelling [ing. Comes breath perfum'd, that breatheth love by smell"But O, what banquet wert thou to the taste, Being nurse and feeder of the other four! Would they not wish the feast should ever last, And bid Suspicion double-lock the door? Lest Jealousy, that sour unwelcome guest, Should, by his stealing in, disturb the feast." Once more the ruby-colour'd portal open'd,

Which to his speech did honey passage yield; Lake a red morn, that ever yet betoken'd

Wreck to the sea-man, tempest to the field, Sorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds, Gust and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds.

This ill presage advisedly she marketh :

Even as the wind is hush'd before it raineth, Or as the wolf doth grin before he barketh,

Or as the berry breaks before it staineth, Or Eke the deadly bullet of a gun, He meaning struck her ere his words begun.

And at his look she flatly falleth down,

For looks kill love, and love by looks reviveth. A smile recures the wounding of a frown,

Bat blessed bankrupt, that by love so thriveth! The silly boy believing she is dead, Clape her pale cheek, till clapping makes it red ;

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What wax so frozen but dissolves with temp'ring,

And yields at last to every light impression? Things out of hope are compass'd oft with vent'ring,

Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission: Affection faints not like a pale-fac'd coward, But then woos best, when most his choice is froward. When he did frown, O had she then gave over,

Such nectar from his lips she had not suck'd. Foul words and frowns must not repel a lover;

What though the rose have pricks? yet is it Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast, [pluck'd: Yet love preaks through, and picks them all at last. For pity now she can no more detain him;

The poor fool prays her that he may depart: She is resolv'd no longer to restrain him;

Bids him farewell, and look well to her heart, The which, by Cupid's bow she doth protest, He carries thence incaged in his breast.

"Sweet boy," she says, "this night I'll waste in sor

row,

For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch. Tell me, love's master, shall we meet to morrow?

Say, shall we? shall we? wilt thou make the He tells her, no; to morrow he intends [match?" To hunt the boar with certain of his friends.

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This dismal ery rings sadly in her ear,

Through which it enters to surprise her heart, Who, overcome by doubt and bloodless fear,

With cold pale weakness numbs each feeling part: Like soldiers, when their captain once doth yield, They basely fly, and dare not stay the field.

Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy ;
Till, cheering up her senses sore-dismay'd,
She tells them, 't is a causeless fantasy,

And childish errour that they are afraid;
Bids them leave quaking, wills them fear no more;—
And with that word she spy'd the hunted boar;

Whose frothy mouth, bepainted all with red,

Like milk and blood being mingled both together, A second fear through all her sinews spread,

Which madly hurries her she knows not whither; This way she runs, and now she will no further, But back retires, to rate the boar for murder.

A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways;
She treads the paths that she untreads again;
Her inore than haste is mated with delays,

Like the proceedings of a drunken brain;
Full of respect, yet nought at all respecting,
In hand with all things, nought at all effecting.

Here kennel'd in a brake she finds a hound,

And asks the weary caitiff for his master; And there another licking of his wound,

'Gainst venom'd sores the only sovereign plaster; And here she meets another, sadly scowling To whom she speaks; and he replies with howling.

When he had ceas'd his ill-resounding noise, Another flap-mouth'd mourner, black and grim, Against the welkin vollies out his voice;

Another and another answer him, Clapping their proud tails to the ground below, Shaking their scratch'd ears bleeding as they go.

Look, how the world's poor people are amazed,

At apparitions, signs, and prodigies,
Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gazed,

Infusing them with dreadful prophecies;
So she at these sad signs draws up her breath,
And, sighing it again, exclaims on Death.

"Hard-favour'd tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean, Hateful divorce of love," thus chides she Death; "Grim-grinning ghost, Earth's worm, what dost thou mean

To stifle beauty, and to steal his breath, Who when he liv'd, his breath and beauty set Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet ?

"If he be dead-O no, it cannot be,

Seeing his beauty, thou should'st strike at itO yes, it may; thou hast no eyes to see,

But hatefully at random dost thou hit. Thy mark is feeble age; but thy false dart Mistakes that aim, and cleaves an infant's heart.

"Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke,

And bearing him, thy power had lost his power. The Destinies will curse thee for this stroke;

They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck'st a flower. Love's golden arrow at him should have fled, And not Death's ebon dart, to strike him dead.

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